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until two o'clock the next morning. There could not be the slightest doubt of Clare's innocence, and the jury, of course, at once acquitted him. Nor could there be any doubt that Wall believed the story he told. The minuteness, the particularity, the graphic details, the conversation, all bear the stamp of that subjective truth, which our language has no word to distinguish from objective truth. It is curious to observe in how many respects this case resembles that of John Perry. In both there was a period of incubation, during which the mind brooded in silence over its creations; in both the accuser professed to have been present, and thus a participant, though in different degrees, in the crime. In both the conversations with the supposed murderer are minutely detailed, in both the tale is solemnly repeated, consistently, and without variation, at considerable intervals of time, and subject to the test of judicial examination.

A case even more remarkable occurred shortly before the one we have just referred to.

A gentleman of high social position instituted proceedings against his wife with the view of obtaining a divorce.

The innocence of the lady was strongly asserted and firmly believed. Counter-charges of conspiracy and perjury were brought against the husband and his witnesses. The lady herself was in a state of disordered intellect, produced, as was asserted, by the conduct of the husband, which precluded her from taking any part, or affording any assistance towards her own defence, which, however, was vigorously maintained by friends who were firmly convinced that she was wholly innocent. The inquiry lasted for nearly four years, and at length reached the House of Lords, where the case on behalf of the husband had just terminated, when Parliament rose for the Easter recess.

On the House reassembling, there appeared at the bar an elderly and respectable-looking clergyman-who, to the surprise of every one, deposed upon oath that six or seven years before, namely, in the month of May or June, in the year 1849 or '50, he could

not say which, he had been the eyewitness of a scene which, if his evidence was true, was conclusive of the guilt of the lady. He swore that he had never mentioned the circumstance during the six or seven years that had elapsed but to one person, and that person was dead. He had permitted his daughters and his sister to continue on terms of intimacy with the lady whom he accused. He was unable to fix the time of the occurrence, even as to the year in which it took place, or to state who was the partner in her guilt. Every avenue for contradiction was thus cut off, and the story was left to stand or fall, according as the respectable character and social position of the witness, and the apparent conviction with which he told his story, or the improbable nature of that story itself, coupled with the fact that during a most searching investigation, carried on by adverse parties with the utmost eagerness for a period of between four and five years, no circumstance which in the slightest degree corroborated that story had ever come to light, might be considered to be entitled to the greater weight. It was not long, however, before the difficulty was solved. Within a few months, the witness who had given this extraordinary history gave himself up to justice, declaring with every expression of contrition that he had been guilty of forging certain bills of exchange, that they had nearly reached maturity, that he had no means of providing for them, that detection was inevitable, and that he wished to anticipate the blow, and make such reparation as was in his power by a full acknowledgment of his guilt. Upon investigation, it turned out that there was not the slightest foundation for this story; no forgery had been committed-no such bills of exchange had ever been in existence. delusion as to his own guilt was as complete as his delusion as to that of the lady against whom he had given evidence, over whose strange history he had no doubt brooded for years, until the thick-coming fancies of his brain assumed the form and appearance of substantive creations.

His

Doctor Southwood Smith, in his

Lectures on Forensic Medicine, after observing how common false selfinculpative evidence is, gives some remarkable instances in which it has occurred. Of these the following is perhaps the most striking :

"In the war of the French Revolution the Hermione frigate was commanded by Captain Pigot, a harsh man and a severe commander. His crew mutinied, and carried the ship into an enemy's port, having murdered the captain and many of the officers under circumstances of extreme barbarity. One midshipman escaped, by whom many of the criminals, who were afterwards taken and delivered over to justice one by one, were identified. Mr Finlaison, the government actuary, who at that time held an official situation at the Admiralty, states-' In my own experience I have known, on separate occasions, more than six sailors who voluntarily confessed to having struck the first blow at Captain Pigot. These men detailed all the horrid circumstances of the mutiny with extreme minuteness and perfect accuracy; nevertheless, not one of them had ever been in the ship, nor had so much as seen Captain Pigot in their lives. They had obtained, by tradition, from their messmates, the particulars of the story. When long on a foreign station, hungering and thirsting for home, their minds became enfeebled; at length they actually believed themselves guilty of the crime over which they had so long brooded, and submitted with a gloomy pleasure to being sent to England in irons for judgment. At the Admiralty we were always able to detect and establish their innocence in defiance of their own solemn asseverations.'"*

We are exhausting our space, though not the number of instances of a similar description which lie before us, and must content ourselves with one more.

A magistrate of one of the northern counties of England, well known for his active benevolence, during the discharge of his duty as one of the visiting justices of the County Lunatic Asylum, entered into conversation with one of the patients,

and was much struck with his rational demeanour and sensible remarks. The man expressed himself grateful for the kindness with which he was treated, and said that he was well aware that it was necessary that he should be under restraint; that although he was perfectly well at that time, he knew that he was at any moment liable to a return of the insanity, during an attack of which he had some years before murdered his wife; and that it would be unsafe to permit him to go at large. He then expressed the deepest contrition for his crime; and after some further conversation the magistrate left him, not doubting the truth of his story. Referring to the case in conversation with the master of the asylum, he expressed much interest, and referred to the patient as "that unhappy criminal lunatic who had murdered his wife ;” when, to his astonishment, he was informed that his wife was alive and well, and had been to visit her husband only the day before!

We cannot conclude our observations on this interesting subject better than in the words of the old jurist Heineccius :—†

Confession is sometimes the voice of conscience. Experience, however, teaches us that it is frequently far otherwise. There sometimes lurks, under the shadow of an apparent tranquillity an insanity, which impels men readily to accuse themselves of all kinds of iniquity. Some, deluded by their imaginations, suspect themselves of crimes which they have never committed. A melancholy temperament, the tædium vitæ, and an unaccountable propensity to their own destruction, urges some to the most false confessions; whilst they were extracted from others by the dread of torture, or the tedious misery of the dungeon. So far is it from being the fact that all confessions are to be attributed been well said by Calphamius Flaccus, to the stings of conscience, that it has 'Even a voluntary confession is to be regarded with suspicion;' and by Quintilian, 'a suspicion of insanity is inherent in the nature of all confessions.'

* London Judicial Gazette, Jan. 1838.

+ Exer. 18, § 6.

THE ROYAL ACADEMY AND OTHER EXHIBITIONS.

THE opening novelty of the Exhibitions having passed away, we can now more calmly inquire what lasting results have been secured. In a general review of the year's productions, it is interesting to mark what ideas have stirred the artist in his work, what great events in present times or historic periods have stimulated his efforts, what noble record he has given us of things which we ourselves have witnessed, or what memories of the past have come like visions to his canvass. A nation's art ought indeed to be a mirror to a nation's greatness. An exhibition of pictures should be a visible reflection of thoughts that claim an utterance, and deeds which engrave their outlines upon history. In ancient times, what the patriot fought the poet sung, and the gods which the people worshipped the sculptor carved. And we in England have fought and conquered, thought and written, and it is not too much to ask the artist to put upon canvass the grand results, Ours is the supremacy of the sea and the dominion of the land; an empire upon which the sun never sets is sketching-field wide enough; a history of ten centuries, in which a free constitution has been bravely won; a religion and a church sealed by martyrs, and sanctified by faith; a literature which with winged imagination has flown across earth and sea and sky, exhausting worlds, and then creating new, these are the noble themes, and this the wide circuit of that national art, to which England in her greatness has a right to aspire. In reviewing, then, the Exhibitions of the present season, we ask, What are the results? Has a page been added to the pictorial chronicle of our times? Has a Macaulay or a Hallam given to history the colour of romance, or the more sober light and shade of literal veracity? Has enterprise opened up new regions of the earth, the glory of a tropic clime radiant and prolific, or the ice-bound barrenness of those outer regions where struggling life on creation's furthest frontier dies as in exile? Have our

VOL LXXXVIII.—NO. DXXXVII.

artists, we ask, been taught by our historians have they caught the heroism of enterprise from our heroes or our travellers? Has Science translated herself into the poetry of pictures, or have the thoughts of our students, culled by the midnight lamp, taken upon canvass noontide effulgence? Such are among the questions which suggest themselves as we take the pictures one by one from the walls of the Exhibitions, and seek to find for them a position in the niches set apart by time.

Looking around, then, what do we find? Why, if not the infinite universe, at least a wide world sufficiently beauteous and diversified. The Royal Academy, now constituted well-nigh one hundred years, may still, perhaps, show itself but in infancy. It may indeed be objected that our English school is still standing but on the threshold, trying experiments, uncertain of results, timidly groping the way in partial light, ever faltering and stumbling when it essays a high career, and conscious only of power when it condescends pleasantly to play with pretty trifles. But though not unmindful of the inadequacy of our English art in its imperfect realisation of the great thoughts which in other departments have wrought such mighty changes, we are willing, in coming to London for the season, to take things pretty much as we find them, to enjoy whatever is pleasant, and to profit as best we may by those higher works, though few they be, which aim at a nobler purpose. Accordingly, in the Academy of the present year-an exhibition, by general consent, above average-we have all found much to entertain and somewhat to instruct, much refined enjoyment in the pleasing play of fancy, delighted rapture to the eye in the glow of sportive colour-a banquet graced by smiling beauty, with here and there a Mentor seated by, in deeper voice telling a more serious story. In this general assemblage we have indeed to regret the absence of some looked-for guests. Mr Maclise is too busy with his grand

E

fresco in the palace at Westminster to enter an appearance in Trafalgar Square. Mr Ward, likewise, has thrown so much vigour into his readings of English history in the same English Parliament House, that we can well understand why he is absent from his accustomed academic place. Mr Herbert too, having in the same palace a chamber assigned for his great composition, "Moses and the Tables of the Law," can only spare for the Academy some minor episode of genius. We miss likewise the accurate drawing of Mr Mulready the wonderful detail and handling of Mr Lewis in his renowned Eastern studies; and lastly, Sir Charles Eastlake is again absent, his official duties probably precluding that devoted study which his highlywrought subjects demand. In the present year, moreover, there is no work of startling import, no grand show-picture to produce sensation. But if there be no marvel in a "Derby Day," we are at least spared the monstrosities which last year presided over the "Vale of Rest." If the men of tried renown have withheld somewhat of their power, at least it is no slight compensation to find that the Pre-Raphaelites have surrendered their grosser mannerism. The old and the new school may now indeed be seen approaching in reconciled ranks, the conventionalism of former days dying out, and the eccentricities and absurdities of recent years equally subsiding. Thus, in the present season, we rejoice in a pleasing exhibition of more than average excellence-no flights or feats of genius, it is true, but plodding labour meeting its due reward, each painter honestly working on in his own fashion, under that essentially English toleration which includes opinions and creeds the most diversified, and permits every man in fullest liberty to speak or to paint just what he likes.

The other Exhibitions are likewise up to their accustomed pitch. The Old and the New Water-Colour Galleries are brilliant as ever. The French exhibition, as usual, is remarkable for small gems of exquisite setting, and large grand compositions bold in handling and treatment. We

shall in our present notice also have occasion to speak of Mr Hunt's "Christ in the Temple," and Mr Watt's "Lawgivers of the Earth," works which by general consent demand high respect, if not unqualified approval. We would likewise wish briefly to notice the exhibition of non-professional artists, showing, we believe, in England, an amount of amateur talent beyond all previous example.

In

These Exhibitions, with the Suffolk and the Portland Galleries, contain upwards of 3500 works-a multitude whose name is legion, and whose general merit is mediocrity. a crowd few can be conspicuous, and of the myriads of human beings who yearly throng existence, the vast majority must die unknown. And so it is with pictures. Of these 3500 works the greater number must be content to mingle in obscurity with the inglorious throng, ministering, it may be, to the refined culture of the multitude, but doomed unhonoured to pass into oblivion. What is it, then, which may win for a picture fame and immortality? For the most part, those qualities which give to man himself renown. Humanity is indeed the noblest study of mankind, and humanity, in like manner, must ever be the grand theme of philosophy, poetry, and art. Man in his highest aspects, in the exercise of his noblest faculties for the worthiest ends, must ever constitute the highest art. We criticise, therefore, a work of art, as we should a man, by the noble humanity which it mirrors forth. We classify the 3500 works now before us according to the human, or it may be the divine faculties, which animate their forms and illumine their colours. We probably may, without injustice, at once consign at least 3000 to the class of very praiseworthy respectability; like, indeed, to the major part of current literature, grammatical in construction, and sufficiently just in thought, fitted well to inform and to cultivate, but wanting in that one spark of genius which gives to a work its claim to inspiration. We find that the men who outlive the passing hour, the books which survive the present

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season, are few and exceptional. And so it necessarily is with pictures. Our memories cannot be burdened, unless there be something worth the recollection. The visitors who throng our Exhibitions would gladly make a clean sweep from their minds of the major part of that countless crowd which, as a confused mob, loudly talk, and yet have nothing to say. Would that this Babel of distracted voices were resolved into more accordant speech, or at least that the Babel of discord might find an archetype in some day of Pentecost and its world-wide inspiration! Art is not sectarian, it is universal; and these 3500 works may at least well prove that no region of earth, no territory in the vast domain of human thought, is foreign to her empire. We have already said that the Academy and the other Exhibitions are of their accustomed merit. We must now press on to the more deliberate examination of individual works. We shall endeavour to criticise and classify these productions according to the principles we have enunciated. A picture is sometimes religion, sometimes philosophy, sometimes history, sometimes poetry. It is great by virtue of its humanity; it is noble, because it ennobles whatever it handles; it is part of our civilisation, because it embodies those ideas and records those heroic deeds which make indeed the greatness of the times in which we glory. That our English school has adequately fulfilled this mission we do not assert. Still we shall see, in the course of our review, that the year has contributed its quota to this high result. Yet the pictures which point the highest moral are certainly not the most popular. "Saint John Leading Home his Adopted Mother," by Mr Dyce, is less crowded than Mr Frith's "Claude Duval" "dancing a coranto." And Mr Herbert's spiritual and symbolic conception, Mary as "The Lily of Israel," and Mr Dobson's "Nativity," have obtained less notice than "The Marriage of the Princess Royal," by Mr Phillip. A picture, indeed, may be too serious for the age in which we live, which is earnest chiefly in its arduous toil, and

proportionately trivial in its pleasures. Painting nowadays is essentially the art of "making things pleasant." To be pleased with a feather and tickled by a straw, is a sensation by no means disagreeable, after the heavy drudge and duty of business hours. Melodrama, romance, light comedy, and piquant incidents which every one who runs may read, and at a glance enjoy without effort of intellect, are naturally the most taking subjects for a picture. The manners and the people, indeed, that delight in society, are generally the most successful upon canvass. The philosophy which bores in the drawing-room is likewise somewhat too heavy when painted for exhibition; and the man who can say or paint the pretty elegant trifle, is sure, after all, to be the darling of the ladies. Mr Phillip's laureate ode, chanted for a dazzling pageant, "The Marriage of the Princess Royal," is in this sense the picture of the season. Mr Phillip, who always delights in silks and satins, is now in his glory, and the difficulties which, in such subjects, have defeated less skilful artists, are here turned into positive triumphs. What gleams of light and beauty stream across the picture in the sunny train of bride, bridesmaids, Queen, and children! What a bevy of youth and loveliness, what a dazzling glitter of pearls, and brilliants, and flowers, and wreaths, and coronets, all marshalled and managed with admirable pictorial effect! We might have desired that white kids had fitted better, that noble wrists had not been quite so plebeanly clumsy, that royal eyes had been set straight with the other regal features; but the artist seems to have thought that, in contenting the milliner, he did justice to his subject!

Almost as a vis-a-vis to Mr Phillip's "Royal Marriage," and close at hand to the place two years since occupied by Mr Frith's "Derby Day," is now hung" Claude Duval," by the same clever artist. Mr Frithis a painter who glides with light elegant step over the surface of society, shooting folly as she flies-a Sheridan in the point and sparkle of his wit. Claude Duval, the leader of a formidable band of robbers, stops a lady's coach, rich in

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